Safe and Sound
by Porsheee
Summary: Scarlet is a victor, but she doesn't feel like she's won. The damage of the Games still haunts her: the death, the killing, the blood on her hands. And now she is coming back to District 11, dread filling her at the thought of seeing Grand-mère and Ze'ev, who probably hate her now-no, who probably fear her. Cover by MF-Islands


Scarlet bled onto the stretcher, blood soaking any cloth not already completely saturated. But she won; that was all she could think about. She could live now, without the same fear of death, without the same fear of killing or being killed. She could be free.

Her eyes closed. Behind them, she saw Grand-mère. Behind them, she saw Ze'ev. Finally, she could return, let them know she was okay...

Then the loss of blood overcame her, and her world turned sharply to black.

* * *

She blinked her eyes open to white and found herself in an ignorant bliss. Where was she? _Who_ was she? She did not know, and she did not care.

 _Scarlet,_ a voice called. _Scarlet Benoit._

The reaping. Leaving Grand-mère. Leaving Ze'ev, never having told him how she felt, how much he meant to her, how their friendship stopped just short of where she wanted them to be.

Then running like her life depended on it because, for the first time, it did. Out of breath, almost safe, never safe. The other tributes, cruel, horrible, and the nice ones? Those were the worst, for when you watched them die... Nothing could ever hurt the same.

She shivered, shutting her eyes tightly. The Games. She had to get past them. But she would be reminded every time she stepped into her new house, every time someone cheered for her, every year the victors toured.

Forgetting it was out of the question; she had to come to peace with it.

But how?

She clasped her hands together, ignoring the awkward space where her left pinky used to be. She didn't know if she'd ever get used to it, but she wouldn't have it any other way.

She couldn't be the same when she got back. She couldn't do that to herself. And if a missing finger was how she was going to show it, that's how it was going to go.

"Scarlet," she heard someone say—for real this time, not in her head. "Congratulations. You're a victor."

 _I'm not a victor_ , she thought. _There are no victors. There are only those who die and those who live. And not one of them wins._

* * *

The entire train ride Scarlet sat in her room, blankets twisted around her body, head buried in the crook of her elbow. She didn't know how she could face them, any of them. After killing a person—killing three, to be exact—she couldn't even face herself.

What would they see when she stepped outside? The capital erased her scars, cleaned her up, made her pretty again for the cameras, as if being pretty was something she was concerned about. But her eyes would betray her, her brown eyes that had once been like the dark bread Gran-mère baked but now seemed more like quicksand, sinking and devouring and never knowing up from down.

Not to mention her missing finger. They would see nothing but a crazy girl and it would scare them. Grand-mère and Ze'ev and Emilie and everyone she ever knew. _Scared._

Scarlet lifted her head, wiping at the tears that were never there. She only cried twice, the entire game. Once in physical pain, once in mental pain. And she didn't want to taint those tears with ones of little worth. _Save your tears for when you really need them._

The train started to slow. District 11. Her district. Time to put herself together, pull up her act...

She stood. She pushed her hair back. She shook her shoulders, blinked her eyes.

And then, through the window, she saw him.

* * *

He didn't look how she remembered him. Scars stretched across every surface of his skin, as if _he_ had been the one returning from the Games. The dirt on his face and clothing almost concealed them, but they were still there, glaringly visible to her eye, the one who had known him since she was twelve and he came to get a job from Grand-mère.

His expression, though, was the most out of place. He looked scared—but not scared of her, _for_ her. Just a little desperate, just a little worried. Scarlet wondered how his face would change when he saw her. Happy? Sad? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Time to go, she knew. Time to get out of the car, out of the capital, and back to her people, back to her home. She left the room, walking to her fellow victors and waiting for the cue.

Then the doors opened before her, and a cheer went up. Cheering for them. Cheering for her.

All she did was smile. All she wanted to do was cry.

She was escorted all the way to Victors' Village, to her new home. That was where the stream of people stopped, where the cheers could no longer reach her. But as soon as she was in, she was out, running along the dirt path to where they always met at the edge of the farms, even after all these years.

There he was, standing. Looking lost. Looking scared.

Then it happened—that moment of realization, when his eyes took in her swinging red hair, the freckles on her face, the muscled arms and legs that brought her closer and closer to him step by step. The worry fell away. The desperation was still there, a little, but it was a happy desperation, and his face smiled, actually _smiled,_ the new scars rippling with the muscles in his face.

She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his back and hugging him with all the words she couldn't tell him while she was in the arena, all the words she couldn't say while she was gone. Slowly, his arms wrapped around her too, and she pressed her head against his chest, taking in the glorious smell of dirt, of plants, of nature. Of home.

Something wet dropped onto the top of her head, something warm. In all five years, she had never seen him cry. Not once. But here he was, breaking down.

Scarlet knew they couldn't stay like this forever; they would have to face everything soon enough. So, with regret, she pulled away.

"Scar..."

Scarlet whipped at her eyes with her sleeve, but didn't try to smile. _No more lies._ "In the arena‚ your life starts to disappear." She took a measured breath, staring at Wolf's chest, never meeting eyes. "It falls away, until all there is...is death. There's only room for life and death."

She couldn't do it. She couldn't talk about the arena without everything flooding back. But she had to; he needed to know.

"You only get to keep one part of yourself, I think, when you're there. When you're stabbing someone's eye out or—" She hiccuped, still looking away. "—Or watching someone you cared about go up in flames, there's only one thing you can keep beyond life and death. And that thing—that part of me—was you."

He pulled her back to his arms, softly, resting his head over hers. And for the third time, tears came.

"You hate me, don't you?" she whispered into his shirt, almost too softly to hear. "This is painful for you, isn't it? Hugging me: a murderer? I'm insane, Ze'ev. _Insane."_

"You did what you did for your survival, and I'll never blame you for it. You're safe now, and that's all that's ever mattered."

She tried the word on her tongue. _Safe._ She'd never felt safe, even before the reaping. But maybe the word still meant something, maybe it always had.

"Thank you. Thank you for...everything."

She felt a kiss on top her her head, in the mess of curls that she'd always been teased for. But never him. He didn't tease her the way people had in the past, the way no would dare to now.

The Games weren't behind her yet, not even close. Nothing was behind her. But here she was, holding onto Ze'ev, tears running down her face, and all she wanted to do was smile.

So she did, and for the first since reaping day, it was not a lie.


End file.
